


pretty baby

by cheshirebottom (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Lolita, M/M, Other, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 21:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cheshirebottom
Summary: Harry, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.Har-ree; my tongue taking two dips down the palate to brush the back of my teeth on the second.Harry. She was H, plain H in the morning, standing five foot two in one sock. She was Hazza in slacks, she was Harry at school. She was Harry Styles on a dotted line. But in my arms, she was always Hershel.There might have been no Harry at all had I not loved a certain flower girl-child.I was young, it was love, and she never left me. I never grew up after that.I was always drawn to boys--not men, not girls. Men were cold and stiff and brittle. Girls, young or not, were just another story. My mind was stuck on those demonic nymphets.I am not sinful. I am a completely sane, intelligent man. A sane intelligent man at the age of thirty-four, in love with a girl in a boy's body the age of fourteen.Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this tangle of thorns could have never been avoided. Harry is the reason why I will spend eternity in hell.





	pretty baby

**Author's Note:**

> _"pretty baby"_
> 
> © 2019 by Lou Grant
> 
> **ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.** No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
> 
> ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀
> 
> **DISCLAIMER:** Neither do I own Harry nor Louis. lol 

****

**Entry One:**   _"topple you down from your sky forty stories high"_

**_Day #1_ **

_To whom it may concern,_

_Light of my life, fire of my loins._

_Hershel. My Hershel._

_My sweet, sweet Hershel._

_Luscious curls; cherubic features; angel in disguise, that she was, always been; Hershel; all encompassing ivory skin, white lilies tangled with vines in her hair, and lips as red as strawberries in summertime; eyes as green as the healthiest grasses known to men, the way she talked real slow undoubtedly endearing, and her personality nay different from the others._

_These were and yet still are my Hershel. So far, more so, at this point they were; just the first few things I have noted duly of her for whoever is in possession of this, my cared-for journal. Because there was a million more of such mere cupid, let me tell you. But that should be discussed in the later pages of this book, since I could go on and thus might be incapable of stopping._

**It's the evening of March sixteenth, year 1957.**

Louis is driving aimlessly, defeated, tears half-blurring his eyes, both hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than intended; his heart is currently shattering into a thousand pieces, and counting, out of his wits unable to pinpoint where he's supposedly heading, unaware of his own whereabouts, even so.

Louis doesn't know a thing. Or, rather partly, at least.

Because somehow, he knows the true reason why he is in such a state in the first place: aside from going away from all the things that's hurting him, he just lost a battle he had been fighting alone for the longest time since. His two years partner, Aiden Grimshaw, had finally left him. A once very young boy in his thirteen years of living, but today is in his fifteen, a faunlet, Aiden Grimshaw. To sum it up, he was Louis' once lover, but now is not. One of Louis' very reason for sooner or later sinking to hell.

Louis' decided he won't be seeing the boy-child for now. He'd been hurting Louis, seldom so making the old man freed of depression. His irresistible youth, Aiden, the freshness of his skin, that  _nymph_ , the innocence of his soul, his mind; the things he's used to take advantage of Louis' admiration for; the man's obsession for the aforementioned, adoration. Young Aiden has Louis restless by gradually neglecting him. Nowadays; when nearing Spring. And Louis, he has finally had it.

He wishes to be the foolish guy, not anymore.

Louis' driving through such an unimaginable weather, raindrops falling harshly, massive pelts against the windshield of his black Volkswagen making everything even worse–and with the addition of his tears escorted by his aching heart, it sure isn't helping so to say.

One more, unknown road; with fields of corn and farm animals the only close to thing in sight, Louis halts, eventually, urging his sobbing to end all the same. But of course, that's an impossible task. The tears keep streaming down his unusually empty cerulean eyes. Everything is downtrodden at this moment; forlorn, sad, miserable. In a second, Louis' palms are covering his merely unrecognizable face. His fragile heart won't stop throbbing.

The clock ticked, Louis finds it in himself again to drive. Not similar to earlier, now he has a probable destination. Although not entirely, Louis supposes he's in search for a shelter to sleep, only for the rest of the evening. What comes to mind are motels he could somewhat stumble upon along the road. Louis begins maneuvering, brushing off the pessimism firsthand.

There are barely post lights in the dawn of night, the skies looking blue and bright up above, and trees along the side of the main road are swaying angrily as the pouring of the horrid weather carries on, giving its wrath to human kind... Too anguish and lambent.

A while, from the distance, there comes a lighting, a flashing of letters that spells Motel Stop making him step on it to speed up. Louis deems he needs rest.

Reaching after strides, on the nearest where the receptionist could be, he parks his Volkswagen pulling the gear. He walks up the few steps and asks someone in charge. A room was granted to him for yet impending stretched hours.

Louis tucks in, wordless, is to doze off with a pair of bloodshot eyes, when the realization of tonight sinks in that he's bound to deal with being alone, now, all by himself, with sleeping; and that means for the rest of his many nights.

_The first thing I noticed when I woke up that morning, was my head throbbing in utter pain. Secondly, my poor old mother. One who should know where I had gone, at the least, respectively._

Louis walks out his motel room to meet with the receptionist; to request that he makes a call. It's Johannah Darling, his mother. He tells her where he has gone, fills her in with what went down, and what he's planning to do next. And, Johannah understands well–it's like clockwork, she does. She knows that Louis is a Hebephile, aware of her own lad suffering from adoring infants, thus that could only mean him breaking up with his fifteen year-old other half was also a news, that would inevitably render the old man in a dented state. The final decision was of her letting him do what he so hoped for, avoiding the feared possibility that he was to turn insane if she ever forbid him. Alas, Louis now is on his very next task: it's to uncover yet another shelter, but unlike this one which is just a stay-in motel, Louis opts for one in which he'd reside in a range of time that spelled whenever. A semi-permanent one; abundantly temporary. Place to continue writing the novel he's been working on, much to appease himself—find an inner peace and move on from a tragic past.

Finished talking to his mother, he asks the man behind some work of Promethean of places where it's serene–suitable for the likes of him, a traveler, a person in need of a space to live in. He's fast filled as he's quick to inquire.

"Two towns behind, sir. Travel back. When you reach Mississippi by the south, ask for the Styles. They're currently in need of a boarder, I reckon. Doesn't matter whether you're a male or a female–they're very welcoming and kind," says the man. "You should see their place in no time once you know you're in the correct town. They own a flower shop in front of their house after all–which is quite convenient for people who seek for their home."

That said, Louis gathers his remaining belongings from his room, comes back to his car, and begins his travel again. _Styles Floral Gardens_. Louis hopes it's the perfect place.

_And it was, indeed. It was the most perfect place I have ever been in all my entire life. It was where I'd met her. My flower child. My Hershel._

The moment Louis spots the household he was told about, he pulls up by the curb, clambers out his ride, and approaches what he suspects is the said shop by the man he spoke with. He draws attention by knocking on the glass. A woman surreptitiously around her late thirties looks up from where she's scribbling something down and squints against the morning sun rays coming from the outside in search of whoever is at the front. She sees Louis in a brown coat and trousers, with a brim hat atop his head. Stepping out the shop, the woman asks Louis if he needs help with something. A place to rent. Louis bows his head as he dons what he hopes is a charming smile. Seemingly grateful that finally someone is in dire need of a room to stay, more so, from one of or in only one that she owns, the woman immediately introduces herself as Anne Twist, welcoming Louis warmly, and then leading him up to the front porch, the lot of them passing by plains of lawn.

There sure are a lot of flowers, alignment of lavenders and carnations–like a house surrounded by some humongous garden itself–he acknowledges. Louis marvels he might just begin to like it in here, might be a good start for a better change.

_But what made me like the place more, was when I saw her. In some angel's body; soaking wet in a washed-white dress, scattered sprinklers making that a tad probability, milky pale skin glistening with droplets of water, rosy cheeks standing out, plump lips looking immensely kissable. In this place, I saw her._

"Right," Anne yelps, rubs her palms together, making the two of them stop from the moment they make it to the backyard, just after she's completely showed him around the household. "So, let me introduce to you my child, shall I? She's just here somewhere..."

_There, over there, on that very area where grasses gathered, I had seen; a too pretty for a boy child, probably around twelve or thirteen years young–from what I could sense–lying on her front across the ground. Their backyard of grass that was not as green as her bright emerald eyes, the lips she owned not as red and as abducting as the roses surrounding her. That little girl–was my nymphet, my Hershel. I didn't know if it happened, I wasn't so sure, but I thought on that particular scenery, every other thing that existed, had no longer mattered._

_It was because she'd looked up from what she'd been reading–a women's magazine–had she learned that it was, after all, her mother and I, hence a smile that she'd shared made me think it was for me–me–the retainer she had on her perfectly aligned pearls flashing before me. Me. She looked plenty angelic, so young, brisk, a true beauty._

"Ah, there is Little H," Anne tells Louis, smiling lovingly and pointing at her child laid on their front across the grass, "That's my Hazza. She likes to be called that."

Momentarily, Louis' eyebrows furrowed just in time of hearing the pronoun used on the child, who is clear to him as a boy. He looks at Anne in confusion, and Anne seems to understand it immediately as though she gets that initial reaction every time she so much as identifies her child. "I'm sorry," apologizes Louis, then, "I thought I heard you say...she. Am I missing something, Mrs. Twist? Need you lecture me about-"

And she smiles at Louis, eyes and cheeks being perfect resemblances of the boy child in question. "She's my daughter, what's to be confused about, mister?"

_And of course. I only had to read between the lines. My Hershel was a girl. She was. She is._

Looking back at her daughter, Anne says, "She's very charming, isn't she?"

_Yes, madame! Yes, yes, yes, a million times yes, I wanted to tell Anne on that moment. Hazza; it was what she's given me as per that one instance. It was all I had known of her, her mother's nickname for her aside from the fact she was a girl. Nevertheless, I was already, almost instantaneously, gravitated from the way she had smiled at me on that glimpse-short moment._

_And by that, I had immediately decided, I wanted her._

_I wanted all of her for myself._

_I needed to know more about her._

_I needed to know more rather than just a simple Hazza being her nickname, and her as a young, beautiful girl._

While Anne pads back to the flower shop upfront, leaving Louis to it; the man in his thirty-four years, once and for all makes himself at home. He climbs up the stairs to his new space in the Styles household, and hurries to wear his glasses. He has dropped his suitcases on the ground, all the while with a mild  _thud_  in its wake, and then he's grabbing a pen, along with his brown leather journal, as he starts jotting about the transitioning girl child he's met not so long ago.

_And this was it. This was my long lost diary. You found it. My humble book, witness of my sins. Papers where I become the most honest, hopeless romantic, moping about the most beautiful girl I have ever laid my eyes on._

_Hazza, that to me was privately called Hershel._

_My Hershel._

_And this was where it all started._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Louis_

❀ ❀

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? :)


End file.
